TO CLOCHONNE, AFTER MADEMOISELLE
On through the forest, on over the narrow path, the horse seeming to feel
my own impatience, his hoofs crushing the fallen twigs and the vegetation
that lay in the way, the branches of the trees striking me in forehead
and eyes, my heart on fire, my mind a turmoil, on to learn the truth, on
to see her! The moon was now overhead, and here and there it lighted up
the path. Close behind me came Frojac. I heard the footfalls and the
breathing of his horse.
Would we come up to her before she reached Clochonne? This depended on
the length of start she had. She would lose some time, perhaps, through
being less familiar with the road than we were, yet wherever the road lay
straight before her she would force her horse to its utmost, guessing
that her departure would be discovered and herself pursued.
My mind inclined this way and that as I rode. Now I saw how strong was
the evidence against her, yet I refused to be convinced by it before I
should hear what she might have to say. Now I conjured up her image
before me, and then all the evidence was naught. It was impossible that
this face, of all faces in the world, could have been a mask to conceal
falsehood and treachery, that this voice could have lied in its sweet and
sorrowful tones, that her appearance of grief could have been but a
pretence, that her seemingly unconscious signs of love could have been
simulation!
Yet had not the gypsy sung of the false flame of woman's love? It is
true, she had bade me heed these words.
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